


2nd Commandment: Thou shalt accept thy role in Ëa.

by Lumeriel



Series: The Code of Manwë [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 23:04:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12568172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: "Sometimes, I just wanted to be a different person. A maia, perhaps."





	2nd Commandment: Thou shalt accept thy role in Ëa.

Sometimes, I just wanted to be a different person. A maia, perhaps. Or just a female elf. A nis, Firstborns say. Instead, I’m a Valië. I’m Námo’s wife. Souls Keeper’s wife. Firstborns barely remember my name. Everybody barely remember me.   
However, I’ve been here since the very beginning. I came with the firsts of us when Arda was savagely beautiful and Imperishable Flame burned potent in it. I was here when the most powerful of us raised his voice and his will against majority. He wanted power. He wanted wealth. He wanted be loved beyond question. He wanted all.  
I didn’t follow him in the darkness. I didn’t go after him like others did; but I looked in to his eyes, and I understood. I also want love beyond question. I also want all. From him.   
I stare at him – his wide shoulders, cloak in black silk; his elegant hands of lean fingers; his narrow hips that my thighs have clung not enough; his proud mouth that I have kissed not enough – and I want.   
My husband. My partner. My mate. Half of my soul… although I’m not his soul’s half. I know. I always have known. And I crave.   
Before, when we were in peace, I didn’t use to take a material form. I was not a warrior. I was not an artisan. I was not a grower. I, just, was. Then, war came. Melkorë cried his rage against his lover. Melkorë vented his spite over all of us… and we became more.   
I fought. I fought as my brothers and partners. And I saw him.   
Elves have forgotten. Truth has been twisted. Now, he is the Judge, a political figure, but then, he was rage, and strength, and passion… and cold fire that enlighten my world. I understood Melkorë when I look in to his golden eyes and saw the end of life. He was Death… and I crave for it.   
He never looked at me. He doesn’t it even today when our names are placed together in Heruhíni’s minds and believes.   
I knew that many of us were flattered with his lust. In fact, I was once, before Manwë chose me as his advisable partner. I was… tender. I was kind. I was his opposing party, the perfect balance for the God of Death. I was the Memories Keeper. But, indeed, I am the Destinies’ Weaver too. So, I did it.  
Yes. I wove my destiny; the destiny that I chose that only time when he took me above Dark Lands’ stars, still covered by the blood of Melkorë’s thralls. I, with Estë, have attended as healer and I have watched the battle from distance. Then, our warriors came back. Our warriors. Our killers. I saw how his hand reached for Nienna’s touch, needing to know she was fine. I saw how their eyes shone with understanding and love, and I understood Melkorë. I was envious. So, I sent Ólorin to take care of Nienna and I took Námo’s hand in mine and led him to the tent.   
Blood and sweat covered his body, his bright skin, his dark hair. I was hungry and he knew it. He reached me and pushed me to the floor, and tore my clothes, and his fingers carved fire in my flesh, and his body was far too big… and his mouth ruled over mine with teeth and tongue… and his cock was an exquisite torture ripping me up again and again, and I cried in pain and pleasure, asking, begging more, more, forever more! I broke in his grip and I knew death and rebirth, and I found out that I would be empty without him filling me the rest of my days. However, after orgasm, while his seed still dried in my skin, he left me and went with her, his sister, his beloved, his sin.   
I returned to Blessed Realm and in my rooms, I wove my fate. I wove Melkorë’s pride, Mairon’s beauty, Arien’s jealousy, Manwë’s spite, Varda’s frigidity, Erinti becoming a monster of no-light and hunger, Nienna becoming a figure of mourning and pleas… darkness and sorrow growing in Blessed Realm. I didn’t know then: I just intertwined Námo’s thread with my own.   
According to our laws, I’m a sinner too. That’s why I pretend that I don’t notice the change in my work, the slight alteration in pattern: where two lords of the Third Lineage of Calaquendi got to Aman, now there is only one and the other one is lost in mists of sorcery; where one dark elf took a blond beauty as wife, now Second Lineage has a silver-haired queen…   
\- Art thou well, wife?  
I lift my eyes from the tapestry and my lips smile, tenderly. He’s looking at me with arched brows, as if he was eyeing a child.   
\- Yes, my lord. Why dost thou ask?   
\- Thou dost look… absentminded.  
\- I was… remembering. Was Melyanna here today?   
\- Probably. Dost thou desire see her? She must be in Irmo’s gardens, as thou dost know.   
\- Yes, she must -, I smile, with the secret knowledge of Melyanna – who used to sing with nightingales – isn’t in Aman anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> You can see the pattern here, don’t you? If not, I’ll probably go back to this in some future work. Just let me say that “Noldolantë” isn’t only Fëanor’s guilt.


End file.
